


The Sun and the Flower

by EinahSirro



Series: The Lion and the Bull [10]
Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Castles, Frottage, Healing, Legends, M/M, Magic, Pirates, Reincarnation, Soulmates, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: Achilles and Henri are building the fortress to protect Canua (Cannes) but trouble is coming. Meanwhile, Thetis has been asking questions about the old gods, and she has a reason. Her theory about the patterns and motifs in her son's path solidifies when a deadly accident seems to bring them full circle. But the wheel is still turning.
Relationships: Achilles & Hector (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Achilles/Hector (Troy 2004)
Series: The Lion and the Bull [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513298
Comments: 15
Kudos: 26





	1. Jinn

Achilles waited in his chamber to see if Henri would come to him tonight. He was healed of his scars now, so if he came tonight, it could only be because he wanted to. While the warrior waited, he contemplated the situation of the ongoing Saracen attacks. 

Achilles, Henri, and much of the crew had stayed on site until nearly dark, but the black sails did not return. 

“So, this Cenk?” Achilles finally asked Otto, as the men were preparing to leave.

“Ah, you know how it is. Pirates come ashore, burning and pillaging, but there’s always one or two who just joined up to escape the law or something back home, and they abandon the others at the first port.” Otto said easily, pulling his gloves off.

“And the townspeople let them stay?” Achilles found this hard to believe.

“Two hundred years ago, probably no. But now? There’s a lot of Saracen blood here. No one likes it, but when Saracens leave, nine months later…” Otto shrugged.

Achilles sighed and looked back toward the sea. He supposed it was no different, then, than the days of Greeks and Trojans. He wondered how many Greek babies Trojan women had borne, whether they’d wanted to or no.

“And Cenk, he wasn’t so bad. He used to say he escaped the pirates, they kept him as a slave, he wasn’t really a Saracen at all… it was all lies, but… ah, you know. And he knew lots of stories about the Jinn, who are made of fire,” Otto smiled. “He knew card tricks.”

“What did he mean, ‘it’s June?’” Achilles pressed.

Otto looked out to sea too. “They just go around from place to place, and by the time they get back here, it’s about the same time as last year.”

Achilles squinted at him. “So it’s not revenge for some wrong, or slight? Or consolidating power for their king?”

“No,” Otto said simply. “They’re just locusts. You know, the bugs that eat all the grass, and go away, and come back again next year.”

Now Achilles waited in his chamber, replaying that conversation in his head. It reminded him of something… something from long ago, what was it… he could remember a woman asking him, _When does it end?_ And he had answered, _It never ends._ Achilles scowled in the candlelight, trying to remember who he’d said this to. 

After a bit, he gave up trying to remember and rolled over in the bed, wrapping his arms around his pillow. Was Henri going to come? He strained his ears, waiting to hear the footstep in the corridor. He watched the candle flames to see if they flickered. It was getting very late. Might it be that Henri would not come? That was hard to believe… he was so jealous today over Nahum. Why hadn’t he come?

In the darkened library, only one candle burned. Henri was sitting at his desk, knuckles to his lips. He was deep in thought. His angel confused him. He seemed so welcoming, so willing, and yet, he sent Henri to sleep rather than make love to him, three nights in a row. Then in the morning, he was gone. That seemed like a rejection of sorts… a very evasive one. _Perhaps angels are like that,_ Henri thought, but… he shook his head.

Maybe his scars had repulsed the angel. They didn’t seem to, he’d run his fingers lovingly over every single one of them. Every single one, Henri remembered, face growing a little red. And now, of course, they were gone, so…? Why would his angel hold him so close, handle him so intimately, then drop him into a coma and slip away? Were angels not supposed to make love?

…Then why wait naked in the bed, night after night?? Achilles was a very strange angel, Henri mused.

The thought came to him unexpectedly: perhaps Achilles was not an angel at all. Henri had been standing near Otto when Achilles had asked him about the Saracens, and although Otto’s southern dialect wasn’t entirely comprehensible, Henri had caught the words _Jinn_ and _fire._ It got him thinking. Could Achilles be… a Jinn? He _could_ start fires…! 

Henri inhaled deeply, thinking on this. He had waited all his life for the blond figure in his dreams, but now that he contemplated it, he wasn’t sure why he thought the blond man was an angel. No voice in his dreams had ever called him one. 

And another thing: Achilles had not come to him until Henri had returned to the South, where… Saracens were prevalent. 

But if Achilles was a Jinn, wouldn’t that mean he was… more of a Saracen? But he was Greek. And he was helping them. Might a Jinn turn against the Saracens? Henri wished there was someone he could ask.

Achilles scowled at the fireplace. The fire was burning low. It was more for light than warmth at this time of the year, although stone manses tended to be chilly all year round, but the point was, it was _late._ The fire was almost out, the candles were growing short, and Henri had not come.

Did he have no further use for his angel now that the scars were healed? Other than bankrolling his venture and helping uncomplainingly from morning till night, that is? 

Achilles’ fingers dug into the pillow and released slowly, and dug in again, like a cat kneading. What a pity he’d left his mother’s list back on the island. Wasn’t one of the items _summon others?_ He brooded for a moment, and then decided to try it. He focused on Henri and imagined a force drawing his beloved to him. He imagined awakening the feeling within his Lordship that it was imperative that he come to his angel now, right now. _I want you; you must come._

Henri straightened abruptly in his seat, awareness like a scent in his nostrils. Achilles wanted him to come. He snatched the solitary candle and left the library in haste, going straight to the guest chamber. It did not occur to him to go to his room, to change into tomorrow’s clothes, to throw back his blankets, to do anything but report to Achilles immediately.

Opening the door quickly, he entered to find Achilles sprawled naked on his bed, though the sheet was pulled modestly up to the small of his back. He was face down, clutching his pillow, but he lifted his head like an alert dog when Henri entered, and there was a gleam of surprised satisfaction in his eyes.

Henri put the candle down and hesitated a moment, and then came directly to him. He put his hand on Achilles’ forehead and said, “Dormez? No! No dormez!” He backed up a step and then brandished his finger in a very businesslike manner. “No!”

Achilles’ face sank back down in the pillow as if he was chastened, but mostly it was to hide his smile. His eyes remained visible, and the gleam did not leave them. He bent one knee, bringing his foot up under the sheet, and slowly lowered it again, letting it drag the sheet with it. Henri’s dark eyes were glued to the edge of the sheet as it drew down over the perfect buttocks and thighs and came to rest at the back of Achilles’ knees.

Henri gazed at the beautiful creature lounging amongst the pillows. His posture was relaxed but his muscles were not, nor was the stare he was directing at Henri just above the pillow. He did not look like an angel right now. But the golden skin and hair, and the piercing blue eyes were too vibrant and flawless for a mere mortal to possess. 

“Es-tu un _djinn?”_ Henri asked breathlessly. His finger was still pointing, but he seemed to have forgotten it.

Achilles’ gaze wandered away from his love for a moment, and he added Jinn to the list of things he’d been called now: god, angel, demon, devil, sorcerer, wizard… jinn. His eyes directed back to Henri and he lifted his face from the pillow.

“Tuus sum,” he said softly. _I am yours._

Henri swallowed. Jinns granted wishes, legend had it. He had wished to be healed, and Achilles had healed him. He wished to build a fortress, and Achilles was helping him build it. Did that mean he was master here? 

He didn’t feel like he was master here. 

If he was, he was like a very small boy clinging wide-eyed to the mane of a very strong horse.

Lowering his hand, finally, Henri left off brandishing and came to sit on the bed at Achilles’ side. His heart was thumping, and he didn’t know exactly what he wanted, he only knew that he wanted it.

Achilles reached past him and took up a clay pot. Opening it, he dipped his fingers in it and rubbed a bit into his own shoulder lazily. The scent of it drifted up to Henri, and he turned to watch, transfixed, as his Jinn smoothed the oil over his golden skin. Finally, Achilles held out the pot to him with a look. 

Henri took it, and the blue eyes directed him in silent appeal. _My back?_

Pouring a bit of the oil on his hands, Henri rubbed it into the long, smooth muscles, hearing the deep sigh of pleasure that ended with just a bit of a throaty purr. The sound went right through him. He caressed his naked genie, hypnotized by the sight of his own hands sliding from the wide shoulders down to the slender waist, and then over the swelling of the round buttocks to the powerful thighs. He could feel the blood rushing to his groin so fast it made his head a bit light.

When Henri paused, Achilles curled on his side rather like a playful animal and reached to tug at his shirt in unspoken command: _take this off._

Henri disrobed and climbed into the bed, and Achilles took up the oil again, pouring himself a portion and rubbing it onto his own hard cock, while Henri watched wide-eyed. Achilles reached then for his love’s engorged flesh, but halted, his hand teasingly just over the straining length.

“Oui?” He asked innocently.

Henri laughed, a combination of embarrassment and nervousness, but his wide smile was so beautiful to Achilles. “Oui,” he managed, and then gasped, his laughter vanishing as his genie took him in hand.


	2. Lovers

Henri was in heaven. Whatever Achilles was, angel or Jinn, he knew exactly what felt marvelous to his dazzled novice. Laying beneath the smooth, muscular heat, he felt their cocks sliding together like knives sharpening one another. Achilles let his whole weight sink onto his lover, who reveled in it, thrusting his hips up against the unyielding warmth. Then those full, pink lips were kissing Henri, and that tongue was sliding into his mouth, very deep. He groaned, accepting it, kissing back ardently. 

They rocked against each other. Henri’s self-consciousness faded to a pinpoint and vanished. There was something about the rhythm of their dance, and the scent of the oil, and the feel of Achilles, that was familiar, instinctive, and mindless. Their legs twined about each other, and Henri clutched at his genie as if he would fall into blackness without him.

Just when the tension in his stomach started to build, Henri felt the fingers card through his dark curls and tighten, holding thick handfuls of his hair and pulling his head back to bare his throat. He wrapped his arms more tightly around Achilles, holding on desperately as they thrust against each other, and he felt his head forced back farther and farther, just to the edge of pain.

“Ah—Dieu! Dieu!” He uttered, his movements growing uncoordinated as the sharp, deep pleasure rose up in him and took him over. He could feel it coming up in him as he ground his cock against the hard stomach, suddenly aware of how powerful was the grip that held him. Henri came at the thought that he was in the arms of an otherworldly creature, and it had him by the hair, and the throat, and it was glorious!

Achilles felt the throbbing against him pulse and release its load, and he bore down on Henri, kissing him hard as he writhed and pounded. His lover was limp in his arms when the warrior felt his own orgasm twist him, and shudder through him and finally loose itself from him. He sagged, exhaling, and drew up one leg to take some of his weight as he settled down to rest on his beloved.

They held each other for long minutes, watching the low flame in the fireplace quiver amongst the red embers. Achilles nuzzled the curls over Henri’s ear. He did love those ears. Henri gave a slight shiver and smiled, his dark eyes half-closed, his hands sliding up and down over the curved back in his arms.

“Komjetem,” Henri whispered, sliding a hand up into the blond tresses. “Jeponse kejetay ameytoo-mavie.”

Achilles turned his face to nuzzle the dark whiskers. “Hm?”

Henri tried to remember his Latin with an armful of nuzzling Jinn. He felt drunk. “Te amo. Semper… omni… vita mea.”

Achilles felt the relief flood through him at the words. His Hector still loved him. He wrapped his arms more tightly under his beloved’s neck and shoulder, and slid his leg along Henri’s.

“Et te amo, omnino,” Achilles whispered back, kissing that long neck intently, up and down to his heart’s content. Finally, he came up for air and looked around for a towel to mop them up with. All he wanted now was a nighttime of naked Henri pressed against him under the covers.

But tomorrow, he vowed silently as they cleaned themselves up, he was going to double his efforts to get that fortress built. If nothing else, a tower to watch from and and a long wall to shoot flaming arrows from. Henri had chosen the site well; it was the clearest landing site along that part of the coast. No jagged rocks or reefs to tear up a ship, no sandbar to ground it. It was a natural target for pirates. Achilles’ job was to see that it was not as welcoming as it once had been.

In the dim light of morning, Achilles woke to feel Henri attempting to extricate himself from beneath his genie.

“Where are you going?” He mumbled in Greek, out of habit.

Henri just gave him an apologetic look and drew his clothes on quietly. Ah yes. Always there was the imperative to at least pretend to conceal arrangements from the servants. It had been a feature of his life with every Hector. Even though the domestic help he and Philip had employed had clearly understood that two men who live together for twenty years are probably sharing a bed, separate rooms were maintained for some nod to decorum. Hermenegild as well, had maintained a separate room, although he rarely slept in it, and surely Simon understood the nature of the relationship.

Until Karan and Xander, Achilles had accepted this as a matter of course: noblemen and their wives often maintained separate chambers as well. Arranged marriages did not tend to closeness. But Karan and Zoe had done no such thing, and there were times Achilles regarded this with a bit of envy. To be under no necessity of maintaining an illusion of separateness, that must give rise to a certain level of comfort.

When he and Xander were on the ship, there had been no need for anyone sneaking back into their bed at dawn, or locking the doors against unwitting servants too prompt about starting the morning fires. On his mother’s island, also, it was as natural as breathing to share his bed with his beloved. He missed that, Achilles realized.

Achilles watched Henri slip out the door and lay back in the bed, staring at the dark wooden paneling overhead. One day, he decided, he would again be the owner of a house, and he would choose servants who did not care in the slightest about the nature of Achilles’ regard for his Hector.


	3. Stones

Every day now, in the weeks of summer, the people of Canua came in shifts to help build Canua Keep. Nahum, showing a flare for organization, drew up schedules and found routes to and from the quarry that allowed him to stop and solicit business owners for help in the town’s defense. Not money. Lord Henri never asked for money; indeed, Lord Henri offered money. What he asked for was supplies that could be delivered quickly, and willing hands that knew how to use them. Shovels and wagons were always in demand, and little two-wheeled wagons that a man could push or pull.

Henri and Achilles watched the walls grow higher with surprising speed. Letting the mortar dry was the biggest drag on their progress, and they learned to work on the east wall one day, the tower the next day, and the west wall the following day. 

The need first to build up the portion that faced the sea was clear to them all. Once the tower was complete, with the two walls stretching out on either side, they would work on the parallel walls that ran north from the ends, away from the water. It did no good to have a wall if the pirates could simply go around the ends and come up from behind them.

There was some debate about how tall the tower should be, and what the roof of it should be made of. As far as height, Achilles was of the opinion _the taller, the better._ The taller it was, the better view it afforded of the sea. Moreover, the bigger the entire structure was, the more likely was that invaders would regard it, hesitate, and then remember that a couple days down the coast were much easier targets. 

As for the roof, a simple wooden roof was usually sufficient, but Henri wanted something that would not burn. Achilles wondered if that particular thought was a remnant of previous experiences.

“But a wooden roof is easily replaced. So what if it burns?” Said the joiner who built their scaffolds. “Maybe we _should_ burn it, if trouble comes, and let that be a signal that can be seen in the town.”

Henri considered that and finally decided that a peaked wooden roof would be sufficient. 

The next consideration was whether the tower should house an armory. If so, it would have to be manned at all times, lest the armory be stolen. Who, then, would man the tower?

Tomas, the mill worker whom Achilles had saved, came up with a surprising suggestion.

“The monks who live on the Lerins Islands,” he pointed to the two small islands off the shore. “They might. The last time the Saracens attacked, many of them were killed.”

“Saracens slaughter monks?” Achilles was appalled. Henri chanced to glance at him, and although he didn’t know it, his look reminded the warrior of Hector in the temple of Apollo. _These priests were unarmed!_ Achilles closed his mouth again. The Myrmidons had killed priests of Apollo; how could he be shocked that Saracens would kill monks of Jesus? _It never ends,_ he heard in his head once more.

Tomas and Alain, who had taken to reaching the site via their brother’s fishing boat, volunteered to row to the island to contact the monks. Henri and Achilles watched them go, both pleased—and rather astonished—at the way the Canuans were taking the responsibility into their own hands.

Henri darted a look at his angel. Or genie. Perhaps it was his work. Their progress was beyond his most fervent hopes. The scaffold inside the tower was three times higher than a man’s height now. The joiner’s assistants were making a wooden staircase: not as solid, but far, far faster than stone.

Alphonse, now reported to work with Cenk in tow, and the Saracen helped shovel sand into bags for transport to the mixers, who mixed it with water and limestone for mortar. It was a good job for him, for it allowed him to spend a good portion of the time leaning on his shovel and giving them his insights into “how Saracens think.”

“You are Saracen,” Alphonse grumbled, shoveling.

“Only half,” Cenk insisted. “My mother was Corsican. My father was—probably a pirate.”

Alphonse stopped digging and stared. “You don’t know??”

Cenk shrugged. “But look, that means you aren’t half Saracen. You’re just…”

“One fourth,” Otto supplied, passing them with a wheelbarrow carrying a bag of sand.

Alphonse was on the verge of reminding everyone that his mother’s father was a member of the clergy, but this might now prompt someone to observe that his father was a pirate’s bastard. He glared at Cenk.

“If you’re going to prove you’re on our side now, you best dig.”

Cenk started digging again. “Your mother said I haven’t changed a bit,” he said smugly.

“I’m sure you haven’t.” Alphonse muttered.

Even young boys from the town of Canua wanted to take part. Several of them had taken to hanging around the site, running errands for the men, and doing small odd jobs. 

“You should have rocks behind the walls, and you could throw them down on the pirates!” One boy told Achilles, his green eyes alight with bloodlust.

Achilles smiled. “If you gather the rocks, I’ll see that they’re put in boxes on the wall.”

He didn’t expect them to stick with it long; boys tended to be distractible, but several of them made a contest of it, and gathered rocks the size of a man’s fist, dragging them up from the shore on their little wagons. 

Once they had a goodly supply, Achilles and Henri let them take their stones behind the wall while the men broke for lunch, and they climbed the scaffolds and contented themselves with throwing the stones over the walls on imaginary pirates, and whooping with triumph at their “kills.”

“Now what?” Achilles called up when the boys had run out of stones.

“Throw them back!” The green-eyed boy called, and Achilles and Henri picked up the stones one by one and tossed them back up to the boys.

“Look how far I can throw!” The boy boasted, and drew back, hurling one of the stones with all his might. To his pride, it bounced over the rise, and tumbled all the way to the drop off and down to the beach, where it rolled almost to the water’s edge.

Even the men glancing over gave a few encouraging whoops.

“That little shit’s going to be a fighter,” one man commented, and the others laughed approvingly.

Achilles went down to the beach and retrieved the rock.

“Throw it back!” The boys called out, rather as a joke, for the rock had rolled very far. Henri, who was standing in front of the wall, looked on indulgently as Achilles drew back and—never able to resist showing off for his prince—let fly the rock with all his power.

The entire crew watched in awe as the stone flew as if from a catapult, soared through the air like a bird, and hit the wall. 

Their expressions of admiration were cut short, however, by what happened next. The stone ricocheted off the wall, hitting Henri in a vicious blow to the head, and he staggered. Achilles’ world slowed and he stared in horror as Henri, bent, buckled, and fell to the grass, where he lay without moving.


	4. Cold

Achilles’ face went blank and for a moment he just stood, staring as he had the day Hector went over the cliff. Then he inhaled and moved forward, slowly at first and then picking up speed. He ran over the sand, and forgoing the path, climbed directly up the sliding, grassy rise to where the land leveled off, and then charged to the wall. 

The crew, who were closer, stood all around Henri, and Otto was kneeling at his head, pressing a cloth to Henri’s temple. It was bloody.

The warrior plowed through the men and fell at Henri’s side, placing his hands on his beloved’s white face. He was not conscious, but he was breathing. Achilles closed his eyes and concentrated on healing. All the sounds around him seemed to fall away, and the world grew quiet. _Heal, heal,_ he pleaded.

The blue eyes opened again, but the brown ones did not. As Achilles watched in shock, the color seemed to leach away from Henri’s face even more, and his head sagged onto his shoulder. His breathing grew slower.

Achilles stared as if in a trance. He remembered very well, in exquisite detail, his panicked mental screaming over Victor, and how ineffectual it had been. Some things were beyond his immediate powers. Now it occurred to him to simply concentrate on particulars. He placed his hands on Henri’s chest. _Keep breathing,_ he ordered mentally, and concentrated on his own breathing as if trying to communicate to Henri’s body: _Just do this._

He kept his hands on Henri’s chest and focused on aligning their breathing, and after a moment, he could feel the somewhat stronger rise in the chest. But the beloved face remained pale and still. Achilles stared helplessly, wondering what to do next. Finally, he decided.

_Mother,_ he thought.

Without a word, Achilles gathered Henri up in his arms and made for Tom and Alain’s fishing boat. When he reached it, he placed Henri in it and then realized, to his distant surprise, that Otto and Matilde were climbing in with him.

Matilde, tears running down her face, took the cloth from Otto and knelt at Henri’s side, pressing it to his head. Otto sat at Henri’s feet and grabbed the oars. “Where do we go?” He asked, those piercing blue eyes looking to Achilles for his orders.

Achilles, by Henri’s head, said flatly, “You won’t need those.”

Then he leaned over and put his fingers in the water. _Mother. Grandfather. Urgent. Take me home. Urgent. Help!_

The channel of calm appeared before him, and the boat slid into it, gaining speed so quickly that Achilles’ hair blew back. Startled, Otto and Matilde lay down in the boat and clung to Henri. The crew on the beach watched in astonishment as a path appeared in the water. The boat with their patron aboard moved into that path and then seemed to vanish.

Achilles turned and hunched over Henri, placing his hands on the beloved chest again. _Just breathe,_ he directed the unconscious body. All he could do now was monitor his love, and wait. This was not going to be a short journey. He’d seen the maps; they were over a thousand miles from his mother’s island, and although the sea-god could drag him under the water and deposit him there in a trice, he could not do it to Henri without killing him.

Moreover, the boat was just a simple wooden fishing boat. Dragging it through the water at too great a speed would tear it apart. All his mother could do was create a river in the sea, and let that running river move the boat. But it was a very long journey. It would take all day, and all night.

Even now, Otto and Matilde were cowering wide eyed in the bottom of the boat. To them, it felt as though they had entered a cold hurricane. The wind was roaring over their heads so loudly, they would not have been able to hear one another speak. 

Achilles regarded them, wondering how they could be of any use to his Hector and then decided: warmth. Moving through the water at unnatural speeds always impressed upon him the sensation of freezing cold.

He touched both of their heads. _Sleep._ Then he arranged them so they lay tucked against Henri. The three of them together could at least trap some warmth. Matilde wore a cloak, which Achilles reached for awkwardly, and tugged on it till it wrapped over the three of them. Now he knelt on the bottom as well, with his left hand he held Henri’s head, and his right hand on the slowly rising and falling chest to surveil his love’s continued breathing.

The warrior bowed his head over the pale face, the wind blowing his hair over his head. He concentrated on keeping the signs of life going, knowing even as he did that it was merely the mechanics of the body. Keeping the heart pumping and the lungs moving ensured that the body did not grow still, and stiffen, and decay, but Achilles was very aware that there was a possibility … his lover’s mind was dead. He knew about brain injuries, and swelling, and death. He knew from Victor that some injuries were apparently beyond his diluted powers.

But Achilles was determined: he would not panic. He would not give up. He would keep the breathing and heartbeat going, all day, all night. He would get his love to his mother’s island, and maybe… maybe the two of them together! They had never tried combining their powers before, perhaps… he didn’t know.

The journey became a numbing one, as the cold wind screamed over them, and sometimes the boat shuddered in such a way that told him, they were moving too fast, they must lessen a bit. If the boat turned and skidded, it would flip and tear to pieces, killing everyone aboard—except for Achilles. He sensed that his mother, or his grandfather, one or both of them would ensure his own survival. But he wanted Henri’s survival as well.

The light gradually darkened, and Achilles kept vigil, breathing, and sharing the knowledge of how to continue breathing, to Henri’s limp body. Unbidden, words crept into his mind from something long ago. 

_Just as if, when someone, in a garden, breaks violets, stiff poppies, or the lilies… suddenly, they droop, bowing their weakened heads, unable to support themselves, and their tops gaze at the soil: so his dying head drops, and, with failing strength, the neck is overburdened, and sinks onto the shoulder._

Achilles cringed at the imagery, but his mind seemed determined to remember it. As the cold wind whipped over him, he closed his eyes and put his face to Henri’s chest with his hand, breathing.

_I see my guilt, in your wound. You are my grief and my reproach…. I am the agent of your destruction._

He felt as if he were growing dizzy. But he mustn’t fall asleep. If he slept, his Hector might stop breathing in the night. He kept his fingers dug into his love’s chest, breathing. 

_Yet, how was it my fault…unless it can be called a fault to have loved you? If only I might die with you, and pay with my life! But since the laws of fate bind us, you shall always be with me, and cling to my remembering lips…_

Achilles rode the shuddering boat through the longest night of his life, breathing for Henri, touching his cold, white face, pouring what healing he could into the poor, damaged head… and this was not the first time he had damaged that head. He found himself remembering how he’d smashed his shield on Hector’s head outside the wall of Troy—he hadn’t meant to do it so hard, but he had to get Hector out of there, he had no choice.

For weeks, though, he’d been not quite himself. The patterns were not done with them yet, were they? 

Achilles was so cold, he was numb. He jerked awake and felt for Henri’s breathing. Still breathing. White, cold, but still breathing.

_… you shall always be with me, and cling to my remembering lips—_

Breathing, breathing, breathing….

_… you shall always be with me, and cling to my remembering lips—_

Cold wind, shuddering boat, darkness that went on and on.

_… you shall always be with me, and cling to my remembering lips—_

Breathing, breathing, breathing…

_… you shall always be with me, and cling to my remembering lips—_

Dawn. Warming sun. Wind lessening. The boat not shuddering. Otto shaking his shoulder. “Henri!”

Achilles opened his eyes and applied himself again to breathing, and making the chest rise and fall.

Matilde sat up slowly. Her grey hair had been torn from its bun and was wild around her round face. She looked around, blinking in the rising rays of the sun.

“Where are we?” She asked.

Achilles felt the boat slow more and then bob naturally in the water before making contact with sand, and grinding to a halt. He sat up and looked. Luke was pulling the boat to shore. They were home. Achilles took Henri up in his arms and Otto jumped out to help Luke take the limp body and bring him to Thetis, who stood at the ready, on the shore.

Without words, they all knelt in the sand. Thetis put her hands on Henri’s dark curls. Achilles straddled his hips, keeping his hands on his love’s chest. Luke stood by, holding a small glass bottle of amber liquid. Otto and Matilde stood back, looking on anxiously.

For long moments, Thetis concentrated on her healing, fingers moving carefully over Henri’s skull, feeling and sensing, and trying to correct.

At one point she sat back and Luke handed her the amber liquid. Using a dropper, she put just a bit in Henri’s mouth. 

“It’s actually good that the journey was cold,” she remarked to Achilles. “You were right to keep his body warm, but for the head, cold is better.”

They applied themselves again in silence and concentration. 

When Thetis leaned back the second time, they could see that Henri was no longer white. His color was better. His breathing was steady. But still his eyes did not open.

“Let us get him upstairs and into your bed. It may simply take time,” the goddess told her son. “Here, carry him up. We’ll make him comfortable and then eat. And we must talk. I have something to tell you.”

Achilles carried his love up the long, familiar steps, with Luke and Thetis following behind. Otto and Matilde came carefully up last, looking around them often, in wonder, at the magical and significant turn their provincial lives had suddenly taken. 

Halfway up the stairs, Otto turned and looked at the shore again, noticing for the first time a white-painted ship anchored just off-shore, bobbing quietly in the water. It looked archaic, but it was in perfect condition. He stared in bewilderment, and then turned and hastened to follow the others up the steps.


	5. Legends

Achilles took Henri to his quarters and with Matilde’s help, removed his boots and gear, leaving his trousers and tunic in place. His head sank into the pillow and did not move. Achilles stared down at the beloved face, the dark curls hanging down over his straight brows, the black lashes laying on the pale cheeks, the short, dark beard fading into the long neck. He looked so young now. Too young for this.

Peeling off his own boots and removing his belt and dagger, Achilles made himself as comfortable as he could, and hovered over his sleeping prince for a moment. But there was nothing he could do except let Henri rest, and hope that sleep was healing.

Leaving the room, Achilles padded out and joined the others where they gathered in the courtyard about the fire pit. It was summer, so it wasn’t lit, but out of habit, the inhabitants always lingered there unless they were under the fruit trees.

Matilde looked at the perfectly groomed handmaidens and smoothed her gray hair back, gathering it in her hands and braiding it quickly. Then she tucked it under the neckline of her cloak. She felt very mussed and stocky next to them, and Thetis.

Otto was staring around him with eyes like two blue crystal balls. To him, it looked as though he had found the Garden of Eden, and Thetis and Luke were a sort of Adam and Eve who lived here. 

“Do sit down,” Thetis said, but Otto did not speak Greek, and merely gazed at her as if staring into the sun. She found it rather flattering.

Luke, whose travels had rendered him a polyglot, played host, communicating to Otto and Matilde that they should sit, and eat, while Achilles consulted with his mother. They both turned and stared anew. _He has a mother??_ Luke smiled and handed them some bread and oil, and fruit.

Thetis walked her son over by the fruit trees, out of earshot, and began carefully. 

“Do you remember what Xander told you once, about how… perhaps Hector was not your first Hector?”

Achilles nodded, his forehead contracted in a scowl of worry. He was worried about Henri, not the distant past, but he listened politely.

“My son, have you never wondered why you cannot grow a beard?” Thetis asked him unexpectedly.

Achilles blinked and stared at her. No. He had never concerned himself with it in the slightest, no more than asking himself why he had yellow hair when neither of his parents had. His face and body, for the most part, was smooth, that was simply how it had always been.

Thetis seemed oddly hesitant to say what she was thinking, and stood for a moment, absently tinkering with the shell necklace that hung down between her breasts. Finally she said, “I don’t know why I named you Achilles. It came to me just before you were born.”

Her son waited, fingers drumming silently against his thigh.

She tipped her head and looked at him again. “I spoke with my father. I asked him … about what you said. How do we know the gods of old even existed, who has ever seen them or really felt their influence.”

Achilles was gritting his teeth now, waiting for her to get to her point. “Yes?”

“He assured me that he had dealings with Poseidon eons ago—rather unpleasant dealings, but—that Poseidon had spoken of Zeus and Apollo as ones he knew personally.”

Achilles nodded along, glancing in the direction of his bedroom, where Henri was sleeping.

“But my father says that no one, no god, and no human, has seen Apollo since before you were born.”

Achilles nodded again. He’d never seen any of them, so…

“The last event my father can find anyone to attest to witnessing was the death of Hyacinthus. Prince of Sparta. I know you remember the story, especially now.” Thetis said pointedly.

Achilles grew still, thinking of this.

“Humans have many stories, and you know yourself now how much they make up when they do not know,” his mother continued. “I asked my father what he knew. He said the following: _I know that Hyacinthus was a prince, and his father gave him to Apollo. I know Apollo loved him. I know Apollo mourned when Hyacinthus died. I know no one who has actually seen Apollo since that event._

Achilles felt odd, as if his nose was stinging and his stomach was upset all at once. He squinted at his mother, saying nothing.

“Why do those yellow flowers keep appearing in your journey?” She asked. “Do you know what kind of flowers they are?”  
He shook his head uneasily.

“They’re hyacinths,” she informed him bluntly. “Didn’t Hector’s father, Priam, ask him to gather those yellow flowers to burn on Apollo’s altar?”

“But Paris went instead,” Achilles said.

“Yes, well, be that as it may, those flowers keep appearing. Did you see them when you were with Xander and Karan?”

“Yes, they grew all over the place,” he admitted. “But I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.”

She was growing exasperated with him, he could tell.

“Can you not? Apollo and Hyacinthus, Achilles and Hector, you don’t see it? Again and again, his father hands him into danger, again and again, some force tries to destroy him, and you try to save him, but just as often you bumble and hurt him—“

Achilles backed away from her, eyes wide.

She held up her hands placatingly. “It’s not your fault,” she amended. “It’s not your fault, but I think you are—“

“Cursed?” he asked, his breathing speeding up.

Thetis wrapped her arms around herself. “Not exactly. But perhaps… caught? Somehow? Trying to undo something? Or prevent it? Or fight it?”

Achilles left the orchard, striding through the courtyard and to the steps leading down to the sea. He fairly ran down them, and when he reached the beach, he plunged into the water, clothing and all, and dove under it, sinking to the bottom, his hair floating around him. Then he just lay there, eyes gazing at nothing, bubbles occasionally escaping as he floated just above the sand, brooding.

When the pressure to breathe overcame him, he pushed himself up to the surface, gasped for a moment, and then sank back down again, eyes open, staring at the blue world around him. He did this again and again until his mind cooled and his stomach settled. 

Finally, Achilles was calm enough to come out of the water. He trudged toward shore, dragged himself out moodily and peeled off his wet clothing. He stood naked on the sand, wringing out his clothes. When he looked up, his mother was there, handing him a swath of the blue cloth that his Hector had always wrapped himself in.

“We have guests now, don’t walk around naked.” She said. 

He wrapped himself up silently, darting her a resentful glance.

“What?” She snapped.

“You’ve… disturbed my mind,” he said.

“I am sorry.” She said without a trace of regret. 

“Even if this theory is true, what good does the knowledge do me?” Achilles demanded.

“I would think it does a great deal of good. You may be… Apollo! You may have tremendous power that you do not acknowledge, are even afraid to realize and use! You may blame yourself still, you… remember when you cut off the head of the statue of Apollo at the temple at Troy? Why did you do that?”

He shrugged sullenly.

“You are angry with yourself.”

Achilles put his hands over his ears. “Enough, please… please. Mother—“ 

Thetis sighed and turned back toward the steps. “Come have something to eat. And bring those wet clothes, I am not picking them up for you.”


	6. Elixir

By late afternoon, Matilde and Otto had rather made themselves at home. The handmaids seemed delighted to have someone else on the island, and although they didn’t speak the same language—the handmaids rarely spoke at all—they offered with gestures to dress Matilde’s hair, and she allowed them. The results impressed her profoundly, and she thanked them, and patted their hands in such a motherly fashion, they found themselves suddenly wanting to do much more for her. Thetis was not motherly even toward her own son, so gratitude was a new experience for the handmaids.

Otto was also rather a novelty. They were much more shy with him, but his eyes fascinated them both. They made up a guest room for him, and they brought him to see it. Then they brought him food, and more food, and then wine, and then more wine. Soon it seemed to Luke that Otto was likely to wake up confused later, and possibly in an awkward situation.

“Oh, let them have their fun,” Thetis said. “As long as they keep their little hands off of you.”

Luke smiled. Never once had he been foolish enough to dally with the servants of his goddess. 

“I’m going to check on Hector,” she said, and went into her son’s chamber to see to Henri. She glanced around herself as she walked in, pleased with the transformation she’d enacted. The blue and white rug was by the bed. The books and maps where here, the shields and swords and knives, the wooden chest and the crucifix, and that ghastly statue in the corner, well… she kept her back to that thing.

Achilles was curled up at Henri’s side, asleep, his face pushed into his prince’s arm. Henri slept on. She leaned over him, watching his eyelids to see if his eyes moved at all. They did not. She touched his face, still watching his eyelids. Nothing. Straightening, she gazed down at them both uneasily.

Then she pursed her lips and left, returning to her own quarters. Here was the small bottle of amber liquid she’d brought down to the beach. Next to it was a similar bottle, but its contents were an eerie, almost glowing green. It was a very special mixture, for very dire situations. She handled it for a moment. Even when Hector had fallen from the cliff, she hadn’t needed this, although she’d been ready to use it if necessary.

Well, she would wait. Let him sleep through the night, she decided. Let them all sleep through the night. Then in the morning, she would see.

Achilles slept the evening away, waking occasionally to lift his head and gaze at Henri. He saw no change. At one point he crawled sleepily naked from the bed and lit the fire in the fire pit, just for light to see by, and then decided on a few candles by the bed as well. Then he returned to the bed, making sure the covers were over his prince, and lay blinking tiredly at Henri’s profile. That nose, with its slight curve, drew his finger, and he traced it over the thin bridge to the tip, before wrapping his arm around his beloved and squeezing him. Putting his face back under Henri’s shoulder, Achilles sank into sleep again.

When morning came, and there was no change, Achilles dressed himself woodenly, and sat on the edge of the bed, staring over at Henri. He had no interest in leaving the room for breakfast, or to meet and consult with the others.

Thetis entered, carrying the small bottle of green liquid. She set it down carefully by the bed, and leaned over Henri again, touching his face experimentally, and watching his eyelids. Then she shook her head slightly. Her son observed this all with dull eyes.

Finally, she straightened and regarded her downcast son.

“I have an elixir,” she gestured, “it was a wedding gift. I have never needed to use it before. I’ve saved it for a dire situation and I suppose this is such a one. I do not know if it will work, or how well. But I fear that the longer we wait, the more he will slip away.”

Achilles nodded, trusting her. She took that as permission, and lifted the glass bottle from the table. Carefully removing the dropper, she hovered.

“Can you part his lips?” She asked, and Achilles crawled over Henri to his other side. There he put his finger gently on the pink lower lip and pulled it down. Thetis inserted the dropper and let a single green drop of the liquid fall between Henri’s teeth and onto his tongue.

They both withdrew, watching pensively. After a long, considering moment, Thetis put the glass bottle aside and put her hand on the patient’s head, near the wound, and closed her eyes as if guiding the elixir to its destination. Achilles sat cross-legged on the bed, fingers unconsciously caressing his Hector’s arm.

Eventually, it seemed as if Henri drew a deeper breath, and his head moved slightly on the pillow. Achilles sat straighter, watching him intently. Now it seemed his eyes were moving behind the eyelids. He reached out and put his fingers in the dark curls, petting his prince tenderly. Henri shifted again, breathing more deeply.

“Perhaps one more,” Thetis murmured, and she and Achilles administered another drop, carefully. 

They waited for several minutes, watching the hopeful signs of Henri’s return. Finally, the dark eyes opened, fluttered, and then focused on Thetis. 

Henri’s brow wrinkled with puzzlement, but he said nothing, merely blinking at her. Achilles, unable to bear it, leaned over him, one hand on his love’s chest, and Henri rolled his head in the direction of his genie.

“C’est toi,” he breathed, moving his hand slightly toward Achilles.

Full of quiet joy, Achilles took his hand and held it in one hand, the other still buried in the dark curls.

“C’est moi,” Achilles affirmed, drawing a lifted brow from Thetis.

Henri cast a questioning gaze up at her.

“C’est mea mater,” Achilles said, mashing French and Latin together into a little ball.

“Tu as une mère?” Henri looked dazed. 

Thetis looked as if she understood that, and said wryly, “Yes, well. Let us see how we go on.” She took up the elixir carefully, gave Henri a last searching look, and left them alone.


	7. Night

It was very much like having Hector here when they’d first escaped Troy, Achilles felt. Except that he and Hector could understand one another. But Henri was in much the same state: he was weak, he was dazed, and he was a little confused. He didn’t even try to leave the bed that day. He sat up in it, and accepted a little broth. 

Mostly, he stared around the room. His eyes went from the monk’s robe and flogger displayed on the wall, to the knives and swords and shields. Next, he looked at the collection of books, and the maps. Then he contemplated the Trojan horses, and the crucifix. The horses and the crucifix together clearly puzzled him, and his eyes went back and forth between them as if trying to reconcile them.

Then he slowly turned his head and eyed the statue in the corner, not far from the table where Achilles kept large jars of scented oils for evening pleasures. Henri spent a bit of time looking from Jesus to the oils and back as well before apparently growing dizzy and sliding back down into the sheets.

Achilles, unaware that his living museum to the incarnations of Hector would give any reasonable person cognitive dissonance, curled around his beloved’s head and stroked his hair gently, nuzzling it occasionally.

Then he’d go and fill a chalice from his mother’s fountain for his love, certain that the water of the island had properties that could only help. When evening came, the handmaids drew a hot bath for Henri. Achilles testily chased off any offers of aid and helped his love into the water, cleaning and tending to him with close attention.

When they were settled back into the bed again, and the warrior had ascertained that his patient wanted no fruit, nor wine, nor water, nor broth, nor did he want to be read to, nor rubbed with oil, they prepared themselves for sleep.

Achilles slept, relieved that his love was no longer comatose. 

Henri did not sleep. 

Henri did not sleep at all. He lay awake, watching the firelight dance on the swords, the knives, the statues, and the books. Some time after midnight, he slipped quietly from the bed and drew on his trousers. Then, on the quietest of feet, he tip-toed out of the room and around the courtyard of the citadel, eyes large and dazed. The moon was full, and there was still the remnants of the fire in the courtyard pit. By this bit of light, Henri wandered around, gazing at the cracked pillars and twining vines. 

Stepping carefully onto the grass, he went among the fruit trees, looking about himself in wonder. Then he found the trail that led away from the citadel and out to the rolling green uplands that led eventually to the bluff. Shivering, although the night was mild, Henri traipsed about the island in the moonlight, finding the flowers the handmaids had planted, and then veering away from them again.

Eventually, he was too disoriented to find his way back again. He stood in the grass, arms wrapped around himself, looking out at the water, and up at the moon. He walked along the edge of the cliff and looked down at the phosphorus glowing on the edge of the water as it rolled up on to the pale sand of the beach. He wandered and looked about himself all night.

Achilles awoke at dawn and reached for his lover. When his arm encountered an empty, cold bed, he came awake immediately.

He left the bed, pulled on his tunic from days of yore, and ran out to the courtyard. Eyes scanning frantically, he checked the garden and among the fruit trees. No one else was awake yet, and Achilles explored with feverish haste. Finding nothing, he turned and ran down to the stables, where the horses looked at him alertly, but there was no Henri.

Nearly nauseous now, Achilles sped out onto the grassy fields where he and Hector had practiced with their swords, running toward the bluffs, eye searching eagerly. Finally, in a very familiar spot, he saw the white skin against the dark grass and fairly threw himself overland to get to Henri.

Hearing the noise behind him, Henri turned, his arms still wrapped around himself, shivering and pale, and stood regarding Achilles as the warrior ran to him, hair flying back.

“What are you doing out here?” Achilles burst out in Greek, which of course Henri did not understand at all.

“Est frigus,” Henri breathed, his lips blue.

Achilles clasped his beloved’s cold shoulders and shook his head. “Come,” he wrapped his arm around Henri and led him back to the path that wended down to the stables, and thence back into the courtyard.

When they returned, Luke and Otto were already up and stirring the fire. They both turned, staring nonplussed at Achilles leading a half-naked Henri from the uplands.

“Here, sit by the fire,” Achilles instructed, but Henri turned confusedly as if to follow him.

“Otto,” Achilles appealed, and Otto came and took Henri in hand, speaking to him carefully in the southern dialect, leading him to the fire.

Achilles went to his chamber and snatched up a blanket, bringing it out and wrapping his love up in it warmly. Henri sank down to stare at the fire.

The warrior hovered over him for a moment, rubbing Henri’s arms over the blanket to warm him. Then he looked at Otto.

“Ask him why he was out there last night.”

Otto applied himself to communicating with Henri, and then looked up at the disturbed warrior with those vivid eyes.

“He couldn’t sleep, and he didn’t know where he was.”

“I told him yesterday where he was,” Achilles said, eyeing his prince, who had left off looking at the fire and was now looking around the courtyard as if seeing it for the first time.

Otto returned to speaking to Henri, and Achilles went looking for his mother. She emerged from her chambers, just tying a ribbon around the end of her long braid.

“Henri is like Hector on lethe,” he said shortly.

Thetis went to him, looked into his eyes, and felt his forehead. He sat quietly by the fire, looking up at her with his large, dark eyes, eyebrows set at their usual plaintive slant.

She turned to Otto, who sat at his side. “Ask him if he knows who I am.”

Otto queried, and Henri answered immediately, “La mère d’Achilles.”

Thetis looked over at Achilles as if to say _that is hopeful._ She went to her son. “I think he was just disoriented. It’s not uncommon with a head wound. Give him time,” she recommended.

Achilles nodded. But the incident upset him.


	8. Ship

After accepting some food, Henri seemed to want to dress himself, and then he spoke to Matilde. She nodded, and came to Achilles.

“He wants to see that white ship,” she reported, and Achilles brightened. He liked the idea of Henri seeing a bit of the world he’d shared with Xander and Karan. Otto sidled up.

“Sir, do you suppose…?”

Achilles smiled at his Eudorus. “You want to see the pirate ship too?”

“I do,” Otto confessed.

Achilles led the way down the steps, and they went to the fishing boat and climbed in. Otto manned the oars.

“The style is very old, yet it looks unweathered,” Otto commented.

“I think my mother’s powers protect it. It’s been anchored close enough to the island to fall within her purview,” Achilles said, looking proudly up at the _Hector._

They came around to where the rope ladder still hung down.

Otto went up first, and turned, standing ready to aid Henri if he grew dizzy. But his Lordship managed the ladder well enough, and Achilles followed up last. Otto and Henri were both rather like boys would be on a pirate ship, poking about with wide eyes, admiring the sails, peeking into the cabin and the hold.

“She’s beautiful,” Otto breathed at last, running a hand over the rail. “Why is she white?”

Henri replied instantly, “Parskeh leybatoh peereht sonnwa.”

Achilles looked questioningly at Otto. 

“He said, because the pirate ships are black.”

Achilles fairly glowed. “That’s right,” he said. “Shall we row around the island before we go back?”

Otto agreed, and Henri followed them down the ladder after one last reflective gaze around the ship. Once in the fishing boat again, Otto rowed them around the ship and they began their tour around the edge of the island. Achilles pointed out the sandy beach that made a horseshoe around the majority of the island. But black rocks jutted out under the portion where the citadel was built.

“We’ll have to row well out to get around those—“ Achilles pointed, and Otto began paddling them away from the island.

Suddenly, a guttural groan came from Henri. Achilles and Otto both looked at him in alarm. He was pale, and held his head, and pitched forward, groaning again.

Achilles grabbed his beloved in his arms. “Back! Back!” He barked at Otto, who immediately brought them around and pulled with all his strength, directing them to the nearest strip of sandy beach.

When they’d pulled the boat up, Achilles helped the staggering Henri back onto the sand, where he lay back with a sigh, pressing his hands to his head.

Achilles put his hands to the dark curls too, and concentrated on healing. After a few moments, Henri seemed more comfortable, but his brows were set at their most worried slant. He gazed at his genie.

“Ou est ta mère?” 

“I’ll get her,” Otto said, and pushed the boat back out into the water, to row around the island to the steps on the other side.

Achilles sat at Henri’s side, blocking the sun with his body.

“Dolor?” He asked, wanting to know if his love was in pain.

“Douleur? Non, pas maintenant…” Henri murmured. 

They waited in silence, listening to the water come up on the beach. Achilles was brooding. Clearly Henri’s recovery was not going to be quick. Soon, Otto appeared in the boat, Thetis his passenger. He brought her around, and with gentlemanly alacrity, helped her from the boat.

She came to her patient and knelt in the sand at his side, placing her hands on his head much as Achilles had done. 

Using Otto as translator, Thetis ascertained that Henri had felt well enough until they rowed away from the island. As soon as they rowed back, the pain receded.

“And ask him if he slept at all last night?” Thetis said carefully.

The answer was no. Henri had not slept since she gave him the elixir, and he had not felt ill until they drew away from the island.

Using the boat, and staying very near the shore, they transported Henri back to the beach nearest the steps, and brought him back up to Achilles’ room. He folded into the bed without resistance.

“Try to sleep now,” Thetis advised him.

“Here,” Achilles said, reaching out to his forehead.

“No!” Thetis and Henri both reacted instinctively. Henri threw up his hands in alarm, and Thetis literally lunged between his hand and her patient.

Hurt, Achilles withdrew, giving them both a look, and went to sulk under the fruit trees. After he left, Thetis and Henri gazed at each other. It seemed they both had the same concerns.

Thetis went and found Matilde, who was teaching the handmaids how to make some sort of pastry.

“Henri,” Thetis suggested, and Matilde nodded her understanding. Cleaning her hands, she went to her Lordship, and sat on the bed with him, conversing quietly.

Thetis went to Achilles. “My son. We must be very careful with Henri. I have some fears.”

Achilles picked at the leaves hanging nearest. But he was listening.

“My first fear is that Henri cannot leave this island. That my magic is only keeping the swelling in his brain at abeyance, just as it kept Xander’s heart from stopping.”

Her son left off fidgeting and fell into stillness, staring at nothing.

“My second is that the elixir that woke him will keep him awake until it wears off, and when it does, he will slip back into the coma state.”

“How long will that be?”

“Like the lethe, it is difficult to say. It’s why I was so careful to give only two drops. I hope it will be no more than a day or two. But the coma is not normal sleep. There are no dreams. The mind does not process. If Henri has only wakefulness and coma, even if we learn to regulate the dosage and put him on a schedule… if he does not have normal sleep, he’ll go mad. It won’t take long. Weeks.”

Achilles gazed at her in dread. 

“These are fears, not certainties,” she said, hoping that she was wrong, for once. “But … we must be careful with Henri. Putting him to sleep with your magic might finish him. I don’t know. But I dare not. Let the elixir wear off and we will see where we are.”

Achilles nodded glumly, and she left him still staring at nothing.


	9. Storm

By the end of the third day, Thetis’ fears seemed confirmed. Henri could not sleep, and was growing increasingly agitated as night fell. He began talking in rapid French, and only Matilde could understand him.

“He says you must go back and finish the fortress without him,” she told Achilles, as Henri sat in the bed, dark circles under his eyes, and enunciated in feverish tones, counting on his fingers, making motions with his hands, and directing accusing stares at his angel.

“He says,” Matilde looked uneasy at translating some of Henri’s remarks, “he says this is your doing and you must fix it, that you must go back, that he… he _commands_ you to go back and finish the fortress. He says the plans are in the library, and only you know what must be done and how to do it. He says he will not be able to rest until he knows that you have gone…”

Achilles paced at the foot of the bed, growing rather agitated himself. “How can I leave him here knowing he’s dying?” He snapped at his mother in Greek, not wanting Matilde to understand.

Thetis stood with her arms wrapped around herself. “It will give him comfort. I will continue to try to heal him.” Her blue eyes were direct. “I think you must do as he asks.”

Henri, meanwhile, was continuing in his husky baritone. Matilde hesitated, and he said something to her very forcefully.

“He says he thought you were an angel and that when you came, his life had finally begun, but now he knows you are a Jinn, and because of you, his life is over. He says the one thing you can do, if you really care for him, is to finish the fortress.” Her face was apologetic at saying these harsh things.

Achilles stopped pacing and stood glaring at the pallid Hector in his bed. The blue eyes were looking a bit gray.

“You tell him I healed him from smallpox, and I worked day and night on that fortress with him. What happened was an accident—“

Matilde turned to Henri and spoke quietly. Thetis turned and looked toward the balcony, where the wind had picked up. The waves were very choppy.

“Achilles,” his mother said, looking out at the water.

“He says it happened because you are a show-off who can never resist the opportunity for admiration, and that you do not care about him in the slightest.”

Achilles was wide-eyed at this. “You tell him he has no idea how many times I’ve saved him!” He snatched the flogger off the wall and brought it to the bed, shaking it angrily in his hands. “Does he know what this is?? Does he recognize this?”

The wind was whistling around the citadel now, and thunder sounded nearby. From the balcony, Thetis could see a crackle of lightning come down near the Hector. It was very much like the strange and unseasonable storm that raged the night he drove Hector over the cliff.

“Achilles,” she said again, louder.

“He says you’re mad, and you are driving him mad as well, and that he commands you to go back to Canua and finish the fortress. I am so sorry, my Lord, but Henri is not in his right mind or he would not say—“

“Ask him if he remembers me ripping the Bishop’s heart out, for him! For HIM!”

Matilde started to translate that sentence and then paused. Her eyes got very large and she suddenly seemed aware that Achilles was standing before a wall full of weapons and boasting of ripping out a Bishop’s heart. She drew closer to Henri and whispered to him that perhaps he should not continue this argument.

“I cut off the Bishop of Hispalis’ head! FOR YOU! I put it in a BOX!” Achilles roared, eyes very pale now. Rain was pouring down on the roof of the citadel, and they could hear it in the courtyard as well.

Henri uttered something in a lightning fast rebuttal, and Matilde said, swallowing, “He says then building a fortress will be easy.”

The squeals of the handmaids preceded them as they ran into the chamber, looking for Thetis. Luke and Otto followed close behind, eyes wide. Water was pouring onto the balcony, and the winds outside were howling.

Achilles held up his hands like claws facing each other. “I put his heart in a little box, just like this. Just this size. For you. I’m going to get a box just like it so you can see what kind of box you put a heart in after you have _ripped it out to save the one you love!!”_

“It’s hailing,” Luke said, staring out from the door way toward the courtyard. “There’s hail. It’s ice, it’s chunks of ice!”

“Achilles, stop!!” Thetis said, coming to stand before him. “This storm, Achilles, it’s you! You are doing this! Stop!!”

Panting, he looked at her, and his eyes were like the ice falling in the courtyard. He didn’t seem to be responding. He looked past her again at his angry Hector. “Three boxes!” he said, pointing at Henri. “Three boxes!” He gesticulated angrily. “One for the body! One for the head! One for the heart! This big!!”

Henri snarled something back in French and brandished a finger at him, eyes wide and black and unforgiving. 

“He says you would only need two boxes because you have no heart—“

Achilles lowered his head as if he was going to charge at the bed. Thetis grabbed her son’s head. 

“SLEEP!” She said. Achilles’ eyes went unfocused and his knees buckled. Otto helped catch him, and with Thetis’s help, carried him to the bed. Matilde got as far away from him as she could without abandoning her Henri.

The storm died down gradually. In the ensuing silence, they all looked at one another. Henri was silent for a while as well, but then began muttering huskily in French again. The circles under his eyes seemed to darken even as they regarded him.

“What is he saying?” Luke asked uneasily.

Matilde looked miserable. “He says his last request in this world is that the fortress be finished to protect his people, and that he will give whatever he owns to the man who undertakes it. He says he will die with no children, now, so it doesn’t matter.”

No one had anything to say to this. Finally, the urge to talk left Henri, and he merely sat, eyes dark and shadowed, staring at nothing, his head moving slightly from side to side like an old man’s.

Matilde put her hand over her mouth and cried silently.

Luke and Otto carried the unconscious Achilles to one of the many guest rooms. Matilde stayed with Henri. 

At length, the rest of them decided that there was nothing to do but go to bed. In the morning, the task would be to deal with Achilles.


	10. Leaving

When the sun broke over the rim of the world, Achilles was already up and dressed. He came out from the guest room and gazed around the courtyard. Broken branches from the trees littered the place, and the chickens were hiding. 

He went out to the stables to make certain he hadn’t brought lightning down on the horses. They were not happy to see him, and tossed their heads, and rolled their eyes at him as if they knew exactly who was to blame for last night’s storm.

Achilles fed them some grain and then opened the stable door so that they could gallop free when they were done eating. That seemed to mollify them.

When he returned, the handmaids were picking up the mess in the courtyard, and Otto was sweeping. No one seemed to want to make eye contact with Achilles. He picked up a leafy twig that had fallen and stood twisting it uncertainly in his hands. He peered longingly in the direction of his room, but found himself strangely reluctant to go and see how Henri was fairing. _Strangely reluctant_ might be understood as _afraid,_ although Achilles would never have said so.

Hovering in the doorway, he finally brought himself to drift slowly in, near the dark and burned out scraps of wood in the fire pit. His blue eyes were tentative and hopeful, but what he saw quenched the hope. 

Henri was still sitting in the bed, head forward in that bullish manner. He was still awake and staring, the circles under his eyes like bruises now, and breathing from his mouth. He turned his head and regarded Achilles darkly.

“Toi,” he husked out bitterly. “Encore tu est ici.” Then he turned away, his head wobbling slightly on his neck.

Achilles backed away and ran into something soft but not yielding behind him. He knew without looking that it was his mother. He turned to face her, and she beckoned him away. He followed her back out into the courtyard, head hanging down.

“You must go back. Go back and finish this fortress of his.” She instructed firmly.

Achilles stared at her in defeated disbelief. “I can’t leave him here to die alone.”

She lifted her eyebrows at him. “He’s not alone. He has Matilde, who is like a mother to him. Luke is here, whom she can actually communicate with. I will continue to try and heal him, and maybe I can! Or at least, perhaps I can improve his condition. But you have to go.”

Achilles’ face started to work and his eyes were glassy with tears. The twig in his hands was losing its leaves under his nervous fingers. “I have always been with him at the end. Every time. If I go and finish this fortress, he won’t see it. He won’t know it!”

Thetis put a hand on her son’s arm. “Now, that’s not necessarily true. We have the crystal ball, you know. We can see things. We can show him. It might comfort him. But every time he sees you, he just gets more agitated.”

Achilles’ face was red and he struggled to keep himself under control. He sniffed and swallowed, shaking his head wordlessly.

“My son, you have to trust someone eventually with your Hector. You cannot do this alone. Have not I helped you many times? Has not your grandfather helped you? Hasn’t Luke, and now Otto? You are not alone. Go and do as Henri asks. If you love him, you want to bring him comfort, yes? Go. Take Otto. Take the _Hector_ and use her as you did in Greece. Henri will like that. Imagine how he’ll feel when he sees you have built him a fortress and given him a ship to patrol his shores.”

Tears slipped down Achilles’ face and he sniffed again. His blue eyes swam and he blinked, trying to clear them. Finally, he nodded.

“Can I say goodbye?” 

“No. Just go. He’s not in his right mind and he won’t say anything kind to you. Take some food, because you’ll be using your own power and the _Hector_ will take a good three days. Get Otto to help you. I’m going to go tend to Henri.”

Achilles hovered just a bit longer, twisting the twig to shreds. 

His mother gave him a gentle push. “I will do everything in my power, everything… for Henri. Go.”

Finally he accepted her advice, but before he turned to go, he gave her a look that was meant to be stern, but was in truth just pathetic.

“Three days. He could be dead by the time I get there, and I won’t even know.”

“Even if he is, complete the fortress,” his mother advised. “For your own sake.”

He looked away, still hesitating.

“I will send you updates,” Thetis said. “I will write. I promise you. I have never broken a promise to you. Now go, so I can tell him you have gone.”

A half hour later, it was Otto who entered the bed chamber to say goodbye to Henri and Matilde.

“Your Lordship, we go to complete the fortress. We’re taking the _Hector._ It will be to protect Canua. We will do everything you ask,” he promised, his brilliant eyes full of respect and sorrow.

Henri turned his heavy, bruised eyes to him, and then looked over to where his belt and belongings had been laid aside. He lifted an unsteady hand, pointing to his purse.

When Otto brought it to him, Henri drew open the strings and fished out a silver signet ring, which he showed to Otto.

“This is yours now,” he said slowly, making sure that Otto understood despite their different dialects. “This ring, with its seal—“ he pointed to the seal, black eyes burning with fever and urgency, “—yours now. You are my heir… paper…” to Matilde, he said it. “Get me paper and a quill, please, quickly.”

They could find no paper, so they looked at the books on the shelf from the era of Xander and Karan. Matilde ran her fingers across them, passing Herodotus, which still had the soft child’s braid in it, and which Achilles regarded as a priceless heirloom. She passed Ovid, which had also taken on a dark significance. When her fingers touched a Bible that Achilles had bought to read Greek to Xander, Henri spoke.

“A Bible is good. Bring it here.” He took it and with the quill and ink Luke provided, wrote with great effort in the cleanest hand he could on the blank page inside it: 

_I, Lord Henri of Arduina, being bereft of heirs and in extremis in this year of Our Lord 1035 do designate Otto of Canua as my legal heir with the understanding that he will complete the fortress of Canua for the protection of the people of Canua. For witness I designate Matilde of Lerins, faithful servant of my family for thirty years. I also bequeath to Otto my signet ring and the keys to the manse of the family of Arduina. Otto is further authorized to take Arduina as his name and continue it with his heirs in perpetuity if he so desires._

Then Henri signed it, with shaking hands, dripped wax on the page and pressed the ring into the wax. When it was cool, he put the ring back in his purse, which contained the keys and what gold he had. He offered the Bible and the purse to Otto, staring up at him intensely.

“But you must do—“ he seemed to be losing strength.

“I will,” Otto promised, overcome. He held the Bible and purse respectfully in both hands, nodding his reassurances. “I will. I swear. We go now.”

Finally, he turned and left, with Luke staring after him, wondering if Otto understood the import of what Henri had written. He was just a common soldier. Now he would be landed gentry.

Soon after, Thetis and Luke helped a weak and shaking Henri to the balcony so that he would see with his own eyes that the white ship was departing, with Achilles and Otto onboard. The wind and water worked in obedience to move the ship away, and the sun reflected on Achilles’ yellow hair as he stood on the deck, staring up at the balcony. He and Henri regarded each other somberly. Neither waved. It was only a few moments before the ship reached the black rocks and curved around them, taking them north of the island and out of Henri’s sight.

When Achilles had gone, they returned Henri to the bed. Almost immediately, he sank down on the pillow, closed his eyes, and lost consciousness. Matilde and Thetis watched over him throughout the day, monitoring. He held steady. He was still breathing, and his color was… not deathly. But his eyelids showed no movement, and Thetis felt that this was not sleep; this was coma.


	11. Otto

In three days, Achilles and Otto returned to Canua where they found, to their surprise, that the people of Canua had not abandoned their Keep. Participation had dropped off, to be sure, but a core of faithful had continued the work. Nahum was amongst them, which was not a surprise. Alphonse and Cenk were also there, which was.

But with the return of Achilles, and the gold he carried, a surge of excitement came over Canua, and men came forth steadily, some to work, others with injuries or illnesses he might be able to help with. Achilles applied himself to his task and tried not to wonder if his Hector was already gone. 

On the island, Thetis embarked upon her own experimentations with Henri, and medicine. Unlike Achilles, who had drugged Hector with wanton abandon in the early days of his heedless love, Thetis’ goal was not personal satisfaction, but the preservation of Henri. 

The first day of his coma, she simply monitored and like Achilles, ensured that the breathing and heartbeat continued. She watched his eyelids intently, certain that the dark circles and the stillness were related. 

The second day, she brought the green elixir and, remembering that one drop had produced signs of life, but two drops had kept him awake for nearly four days, she placed just the tiniest drop on his tongue and waited. 

Soon, the slight movements and shifts that she desired were in evidence. Henri dreamed, and rolled over, and slept. He was in a twilight world, she felt, neither awake nor in coma. Sleep, in other words. Healthful sleep. The dark circles faded, but of course, he could not eat or drink in this state. 

On the third day, she gave him just the tiniest smear on her finger, and he flickered into bleary wakefulness long enough to be fed broth, taken to the chamber pot, and bathed afterward. Upon completion of his care, Henri sank back into sleep. But at least it was not coma. 

So, the goddess decided, the medicine was the correct approach, and it—combined with her powers, and the protection of the island—could conceivably keep Henri alive some time if done correctly. But it must be exact, and it must be regular. She shuddered to imagine her son in charge of it. Well, her son of the days of Hector would have made a horror show of it, and Henri would have careened from rag doll to maddened zombie and back regularly. Achilles now? Perhaps… perhaps. But she must figure out the exact dosage herself first. It was better that Achilles was not here, she felt.

On another front… Matilde was a treasure, Thetis decided! She fussed over Henri. She helped the handmaids with the food. She exclaimed over the pretty shells Thetis favored. She huffed in matronly disapproval over Luke’s jokes, which pleased him more than laughter would have. She was a grandmother, essentially, and every island needs a grandmother. 

It wasn’t long before the fisherman was bringing cloth for Matilde as well, and selling her trinkets. They didn’t speak the same language, but as it happened, Matilde could haggle almost exclusively with facial expressions and hmps. The fisherman found her warning glares a piquant addition to his flirtations with the handmaids. She added an air of respectability. 

By the end of the second week, Thetis felt secure in writing to her son that she had developed a routine for Henri that allowed him enough sleep to not go mad, and enough food and drink to stay alive. It wasn’t an ideal life, but for now, she felt it was enough. She would rather go too slow than too fast. 

At the end of that second week, Henri had stayed awake long enough to be helped to the crystal ball, where he put his hands on it and hovered weakly, watching the outlines of Canua Keep come into focus. He could see the height of the tower, and the beginnings of the north walls rising up at about shoulder height. He could see the scaffolds around the back of the tower as they prepared to install the roof. He could see the white ship anchored between the Lerins Islands and Canua. He nodded, dropping his hands.

“C’est bien,” he whispered. “Merci.” Then he returned to his bed.

So Thetis added to her letter that Henri was pleased with the progress, and grateful to his Achilles (she rather polished up his level of gratitude, for her son’s sake) and then sealed it up and sent it with the fisherman to make its way to _Achilles of Canua Keep, south France, by Lerins._

Achilles and Otto had been in Canua for a month when the letter finally arrived. It was delivered to the cathedral, which Achilles was careful to donate to every week, to keep the priests friendly and cooperative. Letters traveled most safely via clergy, if Luke was not available, this he’d learned from the days of Hermenegild. 

He opened the letter almost with dread, but felt a lightening in his chest at the news that his Hector still existed. The six months he’d spent searching for treasures had been a time of reflection, and he’d often stood on the deck of one ship or another and looked about himself, thinking that at this moment, there was no Hector in the world. It made the world seem like music played in the wrong key.

But now, as he stood at the work site, the letter tucked in his purse, he often turned and looked off in the direction of his mother’s island, relieved to think that Henri was there. Without realizing it, he was behaving very much like his Hectors, staring off in the direction of home. Except that for Achilles, home was where Hector was.

“Sir, we have another,” Otto spoke behind him.

Achilles turned to see yet another litter being carried up the path toward them. It was a woman, with long, vibrant red hair. Her face was disfigured and bloody. She lay curled, holding her arm to her chest, and one leg was wedged between two pieces of wood as if to keep it in place. The boys who laid her in the trampled grass at his feet were hardly big enough to be carrying her.

Kneeling beside her in puzzlement, the warrior looked up at the boys. Suddenly, he recognized the green eyes of one of the boys—it was the lad who threw the fatal rock. He seemed both afraid and defiant, desperate and angry, all at once.

“What happened? Did her carriage tip?” Achilles asked.

“No. Our father drinks.” The boy muttered, relieved that the blond man made no reference to the day Lord Henri was hurt.

Achilles put his hands to the leg first, concentrating on finding the break, and healing it. The woman inhaled sharply, as if the relief from the pain startled her. Her eyes were closed, and at first he thought it was because they were so swollen.

When he’d put her leg to rights, he moved to her arm, gently feeling about. She swallowed, eyes still shut, refusing to look at him, or anyone.

“Your father drinks?” He asked, not quite understanding.

“Then he gets angry,” said the boy. 

Achilles looked up at him again, noticing now the faint scar on his smooth young cheek. He looked back at the mother. Her eyes were shut in shame, he realized. Achilles worked slowly on her arm, stealing glances at her face. What man pounded a woman as if she were a warrior on the battlefield? He shook his head. 

“Can you sit?” He asked.

She struggled to sit up, and her sons knelt and helped her, their little faces grim, and too old for being so young. She bit her lip and tears slid out of her blackened eyes and over her blood-smeared face. Achilles was certain her nose was broken. Still she seemed afraid to open her eyes.

“Where else does it hurt,” Achilles asked. He intended to deal with her face before he was done, but he was concerned that she had injuries more life-threatening than cosmetic, under the shawl she had wrapped tightly over her dress.

Wordlessly, she put her hand to her ribs, and Achilles felt along them, knowing by her jerk and indrawn breath when he found the broken ones. He handled her very gently.

After a moment, he realized that the men at the site were behaving rather strangely. They peered at her, and looked at each other, and then turned away silently, as if… he wasn’t sure if a sort of collective guilt was at work, or if they were trying to afford her some privacy out here in the full sunshine of a construction site. 

Only Otto stood at his side and stared fixedly, with no show of concern about privacy or notions of guilt. He seemed unable to look away.

Finally, Achilles lifted his hands to her face. He brushed her vibrant hair back from her forehead and carefully put his hands on her cheeks, concentrating on the healing. At last, he carefully dealt with her nose, and her sons held her hands, squeezing tightly as she emitted tiny, animal like cries of pain.

“Almost done,” Achilles assured her, brow furrowed in concentration. 

When he lifted his hands away, he looked at her. She finally opened her eyes, and he could see they were the same clear green as both her sons. She was actually rather pretty, he realized.

Achilles sat back on his heels, satisfied with his work, and glanced up at Otto.

Otto still looked like a statue, staring down at the red-headed woman.

“What is your name,” Achilles asked, turning back to her.

“Clare,” she whispered.

“Can you stand?” He asked, and they carefully helped her from the litter. She kept her eyes lowered now. Her boys hovered near her protectively.

Otto, still looking like he was not quite himself, took out a bit of cloth from his belt and drizzled water on it from his leather drinking bag.

“Wait,” he breathed, and stepped forward, carefully wiping the blood from her face. She lifted her eyes to his and they simply looked at each other for a moment.

“You cannot go home,” Otto said suddenly. “Gosse!” He turned, raising his hand with an assurance Achilles had not seen previously. “Take her to the manse. She and the boys will be staying.” He turned back to her. “Who is your husband?”

Mouth agape, she stared as if she dared not answer.

The green-eyed boy, his eyes alight with vengeance, said, “I’ll take you to him.”

Achilles watched in amazement as Otto put Clare and the younger boy in the back of the wagon, and then set off with the older boy to do who-knew-what to the husband of Clare.

When they had all gone, Achilles turned slowly back to the site, where most of the men seemed to be communicating with one another via eyebrows.

“Alright, let’s get this roof finished,” he called up to them.


	12. Justice

Achilles did not see Otto for the rest of the day, to his puzzlement. When he got home from the site, Gosse informed him that Clare and her younger son were in one of the spare bedrooms, and “Lord Otto,” as Gosse now called him (with perhaps a trace of sarcasm) was not yet returned from his visit to Clare’s husband.

Shrugging, Achilles ordered that their guests be fed, and requested a bit for himself, and then he retreated to the library. The manse was now legally Otto’s, he supposed, so the warrior decided not to concern himself with arrangements. His goal was to finish the fortress and return to his mother’s island.

In Henri’s room, Achilles looked about for things to pack up and send. As with his previous Hectors, he was now determined that he would keep relics. Besides, Henri was still alive. Might not he want his clothes? His books? His keepsakes? Otto had already indicated that anything Achilles wanted to send, he would lay no claim to.

Searching Henri’s room, he noticed a panel, carefully painted with a portrait of a man and a woman; presumably Henri’s parents. He put it on the table with the collection of items he intended to send. 

There was a stained glass design in a frame designed to be placed over a window. A carved ivory statue of a woman holding a baby—Achilles thought it was probably the mother of Jesus, whose name escaped him at the moment, but she was only about the size of a good broadsword so he put her with the other items. His cuelba—which Henri had called an _abacus_ —he put with the other items.

The library he wasn’t sure of. He wanted Otto to have the manse in all its respectability, and a full library was a part of that. But at the same time, he wanted relics of his Henri. So he picked through the books, and finally settled upon the family Bible.

The Bible Henri had bequeathed Otto would be the new family Bible, Achilles decided. The scrolls of blueprints, they would go to the island once the fortress was finished. He put his findings together and decided that tomorrow, he would take them to Isaac to be packed and bound. He trusted Isaac. Then the package would be delivered via the clergy to the fisherman who was his mother’s current supplier.

Finished with his self-imposed tasks, Achilles wandered about the manse and then out into the darkened courtyard. He touched the torches absently as he passed them, making them flare into life. It was still a strange feeling to be without his Hector, and yet to know his Hector existed. It was lonely. He didn’t like it.

But he had a task to do, and it was really the same task as usual: to protect his beloved’s world. What was odd about it was that his beloved could no longer take part in that world, so why did it still matter to him? In fact, Achilles mused, Henri had not even been raised in Canua… ah, and Xander had not been raised in Rhamnus. It didn’t matter: that was his Hector. Give him a city, and he will protect it.

_He’s a good man,_ said a woman’s voice in his mind. Who was it that had first said that? Briseis, that’s right. He could barely picture her now. No, wait, he could… dark eyes like Hector, long hair, bruised face…

That brought him back to Clare. But it was no enemy warrior who’d beat her; it was her own husband. Achilles shook his head slowly. He would be happy to finish the fortress and go home.

Achilles turn to leave the courtyard and make for his bed when the key of the front door could be heard in the lock, and the tall, heavy door swung open. Otto and the boy had returned and were letting themselves in quietly rather than summon Gosse. The major-domo made no secret of his feeling that he was rather overworked now Matilde was not there.

“Did you find the husband?” Achilles asked quietly.

“No,” Otto said, and Achilles saw that he was wearing his sword. “But I left word; he knows where to find me.”

Achilles tipped his head and regarded his Eudorus. No trace of the uncertain, mild-mannered soldier was currently visible. He’s in love, Achilles recognized. He was operating on that automatic, unseeing, unthinking imperative: _Clare must not be hurt._ The warrior thought back, briefly, to the moment he leaned over the Prince of Troy, lying unconscious on the sand, and cut off his braid, carrying it away with him in a welter of agitated confusion. The moment he watched Otto dab the blood off of Clare’s face, Achilles realized, he was seeing that pivotal moment. 

He turned away, feeling a stab of envy. How fresh and new it was for Otto. 

Then he turned back, regarding the green-eyed boy. The stone thrower. “What’s your name?”

“Hugo,” the boy answered proudly.

Achilles nodded. “So are you going to help us tomorrow? Maybe fill a bag of sand or two?”

“I can!” The boy said immediately, and both men nodded approvingly.

Achilles turned to Otto. “I’ve taken some things to send to Henri. I won’t be on site tomorrow till I’ve packed them up and written a letter to go with them.”

Before Otto could answer, they heard a scuffling outside the door, followed by a pounding on the heavy wood.

Hugo’s eyes widened immediately, and he stiffened. He seemed to know.

Otto turned and threw open the door, eyes blazing. The man on the step pushed past him, and Achilles could see that he was a common laborer, and was under the influence. He wasn’t drunk enough to be uncoordinated or clumsy, just enough to be more brave than wise.

“Where’s my wife?!” He demanded. Hugo backed into a corner, his young courage overcome by years of abuse and a deeply ingrained terror of his father.

Otto closed the door, drew his sword, and ran it through the man’s chest without a word.

Even Achilles was stunned. The man gave a grunt and collapsed on the floor. It was over in a second. 

Achilles looked at the pool of blood spreading on the hall tapestry, and then up at Otto, his lips parting in shock.

“He wasn’t armed,” was all Achilles could think to say.

“Neither was she,” Otto pointed up the staircase in the general direction of the guest bedroom. His eyes were burning.

Achilles agreed, but couldn’t help pointing out, “she’s still alive.”

Otto wiped his sword on the late husband’s shirt. “Was the Bishop armed?”

With a deep inhale, Achilles decided he understood the point. Hugo crept forward, inspecting the fallen body. Then he straightened. He did not look sorry.

Otto squatted and lifted the end of the tapestry, flipping it over the body. Then he began rolling it up. Achilles watched this calm, methodical approach with some appreciation. 

“Here, let me,” he said, and with his superior strength, made quicker work of it. He rose after a moment with the rolled up body over his shoulder. “Now what?”

Otto led him and Hugo out the back through the courtyard to the stables where the wagon was.

“I know just where to put him," Otto said grimly. "I thought about it all day.” 

The three of them went quietly in the wagon through the night to the tomb of Lord Hector Alexander Philip. Achilles smiled to himself: now it wouldn’t be empty!


	13. Package

Thetis came to Henri’s room with his morning medicine. She had gotten it down to a very manageable schedule that, if followed very strictly, worked well enough. One small drop of elixir every other night kept him from sinking past sleep. One smear in the morning enabled him to function for several hours. Another smear in the afternoon kept him alert for a few more hours. He faded in the evening, and seemed to sleep normally enough. He didn’t wander in the night; that was good.

Today, she had a treat for him once he was awake and sitting upright in the bed: a letter from Achilles, and a rather large package. She hoped he received it well.

When he was awake and ready, Thetis summoned Luke and began the undertaking of reading Achilles’ letter. It was a painstaking process, for he wrote to his mother in Greek. She read a sentence to Luke, who translated it to Matilde. Then they would pause to let her translate to Henri, and then continue on. 

Of course, being Achilles, the sentences were fairly self-contained. He didn’t elaborate on much of anything, but moved from one topic to another as if making a report.

“The tower is finished, as are the facing walls.” She paused to let Luke, and then Matilde translate.

Henri nodded, having seen as much in the crystal ball.

“The north walls are nearly finished, and Otto is beginning a main hall in the compound behind the tower.”

This was in accordance with the blue print.

“Otto has fallen in love with a woman whose husband beat her.”

That was odd, and they all looked at each other for a considering moment. Thetis read on.

“We killed him and buried him, and now she lives in the manse with her two boys.”

Thetis sighed and lowered the letter. _That’s my son,_ she thought. 

Henri, however, simply nodded as if this seemed like a reasonable way to deal with the matter. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue, so she lifted the paper and began again.

“I hope Henri is well and likes the package I have sent.”

They regarded the package for a moment, and Henri rose unsteadily from the bed, plucked one of the Dalmatian knives off the wall, and came to cut the strings on the package while Thetis continued the letter.

“I have given Otto a great deal of gold and he knows how to complete the center section of the fortress.”

Henri unwrapped the package and drew out several articles of clothing. Then he drew in his breath. Wrapped in a cloak was the ivory carving of the Virgin Mary his father had bought for his mother when they were first married. He lifted it out with reverent hands.

Thetis glanced at it. Oh, it looked like her, holding baby Achilles! Yes, she liked this one. She continued reading the letter.

“Alphonse and Cenk are organizing citizens to man the ship for patrols.”

Henri lifted the Bible and leafed through it, his eyes deep and soft.

Thetis watched him, waiting for him to finish picking through the contents of the package before reading the last line. 

“Ah, mes parents,” he murmured, coming to the painted panel and running his fingers over it carefully. Then he unwrapped another of his mother’s shawls to find the abacus that Achilles had been so fascinated by. He held it in his hands and bowed his head over it.

“Ask Henri if I can come home now,” Thetis read, finally, and then folded the letter back up briskly and laying it on the bed.

“I’ll leave you to your package. Do come out and have some food when you’re ready,” she remarked casually. She and Luke left the room quietly.

After they left, Matilde looked at Henri. 

“Where shall we put the Bible?” She asked, as if there was not an obvious answer.

“On the shelf,” he gestured to the other books already there. He’d been reading the Ovid, laboriously, as his Latin was rusty. But reading was improving him.

“And the abacus?”

Henri shrugged… “By the Trojan horses?”

“And where shall we put your parents?” 

He smiled and pointed to a bench along the wall where they could be propped.

“And where should we put La Vierge?” Matilde held the ivory statue affectionately. 

“Do you think Thetis would like it out by the fountain?” Henri suggested softly.

Matilde nodded and set the statue down. Then she sat on the bed and put her hand on her boy’s knee.

“Where should we put Achilles?” She asked him tenderly.

Henri was silent. “What is he, do you think?”

Matilde shook her head. “What is this place, do you think? Because I don’t know.”

Henri looked around at the museum he was sleeping in. “Some of these things are very old. I think Achilles is very old. What was he talking about, the Bishop?”

Matilde patted his knee. “Luke says you have lived before and all these things are from the other times you have lived.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Henri said immediately.

“Perhaps. But you did dream of Achilles when you were young, even I remember it.”

Henri fell silent. 

“And he does adore you. And he has done whatever you’ve told him. I know he did not mean to hurt you. I watched how frantic he was to bring you here. That was quite a journey. You are lucky to have slept through it, because I have new gray hairs from that boat ride!” She told him frankly.

He looked around again. “I can never leave this island,” he said. “It is only magic keeping me alive. I know it. His mother won’t say it, but I know it.”

Matilde nodded, her kind eyes looking over this boy she’d known since he was a baby. 

“So do you want to be here with Achilles, or be here without Achilles?”

Henri looked at the empty space next to him on the bed and then to her. “But it’s a sin, isn’t it?”

Matilde straightened and patted her hair. “I have sinned once or twice.”

Henri smiled. “I see.”

“Or maybe you don’t,” she replied primly. “But if Achilles comes back, perhaps it is better to find another place for that statue,” she pointed to Jesus, bleeding in the corner.

“We can put him on the balcony, facing outward. To watch the sea, you know,” Henri said.

“Yes, let’s do that. So. Shall we ask Thetis to write to Achilles and tell him to come home?”

Henri nodded pensively, and then straightened up. “But wait, I want to make a list of the things he is to bring with him.”

“Of course you do,” Matilde said wryly, and left him to go to Thetis and tell her the good news: Henri would like Achilles to come home now.


	14. Coming home

Achilles was preparing to leave Canua. He had luggage, this time. His French Hector had no hesitation in ordering his genie around via list of written demands, and Achilles found himself bundling up the relics of Henri’s parents, such as Lady Arduina’s jewels, and Lord Arduina’s collection of peacock feathers and foreign coins. There was a list of books Henri wanted brought. Then he must take at least one fine tapestry from Henri’s room, and the silver candlestick holders, also Matilde’s belongings, for it seemed there was no question of her leaving the island.

Achilles felt he was rather stripping Otto of his newfound wealth, and compensated by turning so many pebbles to gold, Otto became nervous and started hiding them all over the manse in strange places. Finding them became a pastime that kept the boys busy for hours at a time.

Finally the day came that Alphonse and Cenk would ferry Achilles to Genoa, where he would sail from that large port to Greece, like a normal human gentleman with a great deal of luggage. 

When Otto took Achilles in the wagon, with his trunks behind him, to the site of the fortress, there was a sizable portion of the town of Canua there to bid goodbye to their Patron. Achilles was startled, and unexpectedly touched. His face twitched several times, and he had to cough and swallow often as the men shook his hand and bade him farewell.

He had not had such a send-off before. The last people to say good bye, having hung modestly back, were Isaac and Nahum. Achilles still looked at them and saw Young Paris and Old Paris, which also made him a bit vulnerable to emotion. He arranged his face as sternly as he could and shook their hands heartily.

“But I have a gift for you, to say goodbye,” Isaac told him. “I think you will like it.”

He held out a bundle in his hands almost the size of a baby. It was wrapped in cloth, was hard, and thin in the middle. Achilles unwrapped it, scowling in perplexity. It was glass, like two large cups facing in opposite directions, and hooked in the middle with a thin passage of glass. It had a silver frame, and intricate worked silver around the ends, which caught his attention, for Achilles had a strange affinity for peculiar devices in elegant frames. Inside it was white sand.

He was afraid to ask what the thing was, and Nahum grinned. “It’s an hour glass. You use it to tell time.”

He turned it so all the sand, which had reposed in the bottom, was now on top and running through in a thin trickle.

Achilles stared, his memory tickling very faintly… yes… Bardasian, and the Roman soldiers, there had been one but it was water, but this was sand, which was so much better! The sand was like the white sand of the beach.

“When this runs out, it has been one hour.” Nahum said.

Achilles was beyond moved. He actually hugged the both of them, and left Canua blinking a great deal, and clutching his hourglass. He stood on the deck of the _Hector_ and stared at Canua Keep, and the people there, until they were out of sight.

Several days later, the fisherman arrived, his boat laden down with wooden chests, and Achilles. The fisherman had grumbled mightily about ferrying this much luggage, but when Achilles offered to row, he grew more irritable than ever, and asked if the young gentleman was casting aspersion on his age? He rowed ploddingly, and Achilles stared at the oars with an ache in his throat, because he could have gotten them from the main island to his mother’s in a third of the time. But this particular fisherman was the sort with hairy eyebrows and a hairy temper to go with it, and wanted nothing more than an excuse to stop rowing and start talking, so Achilles smiled gamely and stared past him at his mother’s island, growing closer with painful slowness.

When they were close enough to the black rocks to see the citadel, his eyes were searching for the balcony to his room. When he saw it, he was at first heartened to see someone gazing at him from the balcony. He straightened, hoping it was Henri. When they got closer, however, he realized it was the statue of Jesus. Sinking back down, Achilles sighed and looked down to the beach.

His mood lifted as he watched the procession of people coming down the steps to meet him: there was his mother, her hands toying with her necklace as she gazed toward them. There was Luke, coming to stand behind her with his hands on her shoulders. There were the handmaids, hovering close to Matilde as if she were their new mother. Achilles looked for Henri.

Finally he saw him, sitting on the stairs. He was out of bed, but even from here, Achilles could sense that he was conserving his strength. But he was there, he was alive, he was aware, he was eager enough to see Achilles that he’d come down the steps to the beach.

The fisherman beached his boat, and Luke came forward to help, giving Achilles a friendly clap on the back.

It was pleasant to be greeted, coming home, Achilles realized. Why was it so much more pleasant this time?

Ah… because he was not coming home to mourn. He was coming home to be with his Hector. Achilles left Luke and the others to deal with his luggage. His mother embraced him briefly and then with a nod, released him to go to Henri.

Achilles walked toward his beloved, reminding himself to remain calm and not do anything off-putting. Henri rose and came slowly toward him, and his angel could see that his prince was thinner, and his dark eyes were rather mournful. But the eyes were soft and clear again, not angry and sunken and accusing. 

Achilles walked up to his prince, and Henri opened his arms to him, gathering him close, wrapping them around his shoulders, and digging his fingers in the long blond hair. Achilles twined his arms around the thin waist and pulled them tight together, putting his face in his beloved’s neck. They clung to each other for a very long time.


	15. Hourglass

It was three months now, since Achilles came home. He lay in his bed, gazing at the hourglass. He had just turned it over. It was early evening, and the fires were lit. Henri was in his arms, and they were naked. Their love-making just now had been long and tender… tender in particular because these days, Achilles could feel the fragility of his Hector.

Thetis had warned him when he first came home. “I have him in a balance, but I can see he is not hardy or strong anymore. The wound to his head was fatal. We are just keeping it at bay. As with Xander, I cannot give him back what he has lost. This is not a Hector you can chase around or sword fight with. This is not a Hector who can go galloping across the uplands on horseback. This is a Hector who is breathing and eating and sleeping and thinking. And when the elixir is gone, he will sink under and be gone as well. I cannot get more. The goddess who gave it to me, she vanished from this realm a thousand years ago. We are on our own.”

Now, Achilles stared at the hourglass, thinking of the bottle of green elixir. It was not a large bottle, but of course, the dosage was so small. He ran his fingers over Henri’s back, feeling the bumps of his spine up by his neck. It wasn’t ghastly; he wasn’t starving. But he was thinner, the way he tended to get when his grey hair came in.

Achilles sank his fingers into the soft hair. But it was still dark, and would always be dark… because he would never leave this island. 

But that bottle, how much elixir did it hold? The warrior stared at the sands running through the hourglass. When he’d first come home, the bottle had been full. Now it was—Achilles reached out and turned the glass back, letting the sands return. He waited until there was just a small portion left, and turned it on its side, halting its progress and perusing it.

Yes. It was just about that amount gone, comparatively. He turned the glass back so the small amount of sand was on top again. He watched it run steadily down, counting to himself. 

Because when he let the entire hourglass run, and counted at his own pace, he counted to about 350. So now, if this represented about the portion of the elixir that was gone… he counted to 30, and the sand was gone. So…Achilles had not had much schooling in formal mathematics, and he scowled a bit, trying to compute. Three months were gone, and he had counted to thirty. 

He reached for the abacus and managed to pull it to him without disturbing his beloved. Pushing the stones around quietly, he separated and divided and counted. Henri turned his head and regarded the hourglass and the abacus, and how Achilles immediately brushed his fingers over it to conceal what he’d calculated.

“I know already,” he said in his French-tinged Latin, which had improved markedly. He had studied while Achilles was building his fortress. “Is three years, maybe. Almost.”

The warrior wrapped his arms around his Hector. “Is there anything you want to do tomorrow?” He murmured into the dark curls.

Henri smiled. “I want to swim. In the water, I feel le-zhere… light. Not heavy.”

“And after that?” Achilles pulled Henri on top of him, and they squirmed a bit to fit themselves together comfortably. 

“We must write a letter to Otto and Clare,” Henri said, his voice growing fainter. 

“What should we do in the afternoon?” Achilles asked in a whisper, pulling gently at the curls, watching them straighten and then bounce back.

Henri did not answer. He would not waken again tonight. He would not waken until morning, when Achilles put the tiniest smear of green elixir on his finger and gently put the finger on his beloved’s tongue. A larger dose, and Henri would have a good day. More energy. Perhaps they’d walk, and swim. A smaller dose, and he’d be quiet and sleepy, maybe he would read a bit. Achilles always gave him a smaller dose on rainy days. Henri said he didn’t mind, on rainy days.

The more good days he had, the fewer he would have. The faster the elixir would be gone. That was the mathematics of it. Achilles cradled him close, and kissed his head. Then he sighed, and turned to stare again at the hourglass.


End file.
